


Pulse

by shadesofbrixton



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-12
Updated: 2006-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post finale: After two years, Sydney gets restless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

The first time Sydney sees him is in Taipei. Her daughter is two, and the little island paradise that Vaughn has managed to secret them away on has enough space for her to go running every morning. Ten mile, around the beachfront and back, and her calves still burn from trying to gain enough momentum in sand. 

When she runs on pavement, it’s like flying.

It’s what she’s doing now – running – arm grazing off the sharp brick wall of the outside of a club, and then she’s in through the alley door, the men close behind her, and she slams back behind the door while the girls who work the alcohol for the crowd shriek at her in three different languages. 

It’s sheer luck that the men get pulled out and she doesn’t, bouncers securing them. No guns on the premises, and she doesn’t have one – nowhere that anyone would be able to see, anyway – and they let her slip free, just another insane European or American tourist who has enough money for the cover charge and enough chemical pumped into blowjob-lips that the muscle who catches her takes one look and sends her sprawling off behind him.

The power of imagination. It’s what she works on. 

She catches her balance with the help of a few drugged out college kids dressed up like Rainbow Brite, and the momentum turns her toward the stage.

Sark’s shirtless, his hair’s grown to the length it was before prison, finally. He’s got his fingers buried in – man or woman? – someone’s hair, jaw tipped up, devouring the – no, it’s a man – man’s mouth from behind. 

It leaves his chest exposed. Pale and streaked in sweat and three clear fingernail scores that go from throat to groin that haven’t faded, not even under the lights. Sydney could shoot him. Right here and now. Probably she’d get away with it – could run fast enough, people wouldn’t think to know it was her.

There’s a girl on her knees sucking his cock, through the open frame of black leather pants. 

It’s – 

Shocking?

More than shocking. Shocking doesn’t really cover it, because shocking is something that makes people raise their eyebrows and mentally tut. The only thing Sydney’s doing mentally right about now is _craning_. Working closer to the stage before she even realizes it, feet leading her one, two... and the three of them aren’t the only people on stage, really, there’s a whole crowd and _what is the man behind him doing with his hips_.

Sark’s mouth is freed, and Sydney can see him laugh, but the music is too loud to hear anything at all. The man, this strange man, whose dark fingers cover the pale plane of Sark’s stomach, help keep his hips back as they push forward into this woman’s mouth, gradual snaps of his hips and his head falls back, mouth open, onto the man’s shoulder.

Sydney can’t remember the last time she was this wet. Surge of arousal curling through her gut and fuck, _fuck_ , the woman on her knees is tucking him back in and she just. 

Wants.

There’s something Pagan about it, is the last thing she thinks before a strong hand closes over the back of her throat. 

She’s turned away from the stage, and the muscle who’d dismissed her earlier is sneering down at her. Eyes locked on her mouth.

Sydney cracks him in the groin with her knee, pointed boot slamming down against his shoe – steel toed, good for him – and she’s running again. Up the stage steps, past the flutter of girls in feathered headdresses ready to take the stage as part of an actual scheduled show (so much less entertaining than the impromptu ones) and the music closes in on her again, curtains and brocade closing in to muffle breathing and fuck, she doesn’t know where she is. 

Stage door.

Sark.

Smoking and laughing with the man who – no, a different man, taller and wider build, though they could be brothers, and those dark fingertips are exactly the same, the color of caramel and just as – 

Fucking hell she can’t shut her brain up.

Sark sees her – turns like he’s smelled her, and that washes another flood of twisting, turning want through her stomach and her brain is screaming What The Fuck Are You Doing with enough exclamation marks to kill a copy editor – sees her and smiles.

Just enough teeth.

The yell of more than one man behind her – the muscle’s found his friends – and Sark’s on his feet, loping across the backstage space to grab her arm, fingers steel clamp even as she tries to jolt away.

Throws her up against a wall and covers her mouth with his. 

Just enough teeth.

His hips slam forward against hers, knocking her back, her head back, sending her chest jutting out, and still she’s fighting him, scratching at his forearms. She can hear the man he was with laughing, but all she can taste, all she wants to taste, is cigarettes and semen and Sark.

“Who – ” she starts to ask, Whose cock were you sucking, or maybe to say Who are you, or maybe to add Can I watch, but Sark doesn’t give her the chance, lunging down on her so hard her head cracks back against the wall behind the stapled-up black curtain that’s meant to muffle sounds like the one that just ripped out of her throat.

The men pound by, yelling, and the other man – Sark’s friend – yells for them, points them in the wrong direction, arms waving with enthusiasm. Speaking Korean, maybe, or Japanese, or fucking Spanish who the fuck cares, when Sark’s tongue is – oh – fuck – 

Sydney sucks down a long gulp of air when Sark pulls back far enough, enough to drag her by a fist-full of her dress, which is threatening to fall down, further into the depths of the theater-esque backstage, one part of her mind wondering what used to be here, what would be here now if she wasn’t. 

Except she is, and she can barely stay on her feet, hands clawing at the back of Sark’s waistband as he pulls her into a dressing room. Slams the door shut, locks it, and throws her up against it. Her skull cracks again, barely missing the coathook, and the moan that trickles out of her throat – pain or arousal? – gets caught up by Sark’s mouth.

His hands.

Are everywhere.

Ripping her dress down, letting it pile tight around her waist, and it’s never been so fucking restricting. Both her hands buried fist-tight in his hair, trying to hold on and breathe as he works her throat under his mouth, tasting her pulse, teeth leaving a string of Morse code in her skin. Bites down hard against the place where her neck and shoulder meet, sensitive skin that makes her cry out and arch again.

He swears, and his voice startles her. Makes this real. He rolls down against her, hips bracketing and pushing, pushing hard, and then he’s laughing as his fingers skim up the inside of her thigh, pulling the gun out of the garter belt.

“Or are you just happy to see me,” he rumbles against her skin, tossing the weapon off somewhere. She can hear it skitter on the floor, and it makes her pause for a moment – only mentally, her fingernails are acquainting themselves with the marks on his chest – that he’s unarmed. 

Not that it seems to matter. 

He pushes himself back far enough to look her in the eye, her hair everywhere, chest heaving, and the latter’s the kind of revelation that once she realizes it, she can’t seem to _stop_ it.

“Magnificent,” he murmurs, eyes hazed and this close she can see the remains of makeup, wants to ask him if he’s on assignment here, wants to ask him if he’ll – 

But he does, like he can read her mind, a deft twist of his mouth into something like a smile, mouth skimming down as his hands pin her arms against the door, and he scrapes day-old stubble and teeth over her chest, not an iota of subtlety as he mouths at her breasts, teeth worrying her nipple harder than she likes and it makes her cry out again, fingers twisting along his elbows in an effort to push him free, pull him closer.

“Sark – ” she gasps. He bites harder. Her back goes arching out again, leg coming up to wedge a knee along his hip, trying to push him back. One good, hard shove and he sprawls back a little, enough to lose his balance, and she’s on him, a launch less dignified than she’d expected, even as exposed as she is.

She lands on top of him, and he rolls her instantly, knocking her dress up from the bottom, not bothering with shoes or the garter belt that held her weapon, fingernails catching and yanking at her panties.

“Want – ” he gasps, and then buries the sentence in her mouth again. She doesn’t push him off. 

She can feel him hard, aching press against her thigh, and rubs against him. The groan he licks against her teeth is louder than either of them were expecting, and she can’t stop rubbing up into him, like her hips are already two steps ahead of her in terms of what she wants. 

It takes more willpower than she knew she had to keep her hands on his chest, fingernails scratching over nipples and he gives it hard and god, he likes it hard, too, she files that away as she scrapes again and again, each set of red marks she leaves sending his hips rutting down against her leg. But the prize – what her fingers want – 

She gives in when he manages to get her panties off. Dropping her fingers onto his pants – and she thought they were leather before but they’re not, they’re something else, a dull shine and it’s not denim, but her fingers are too busy pulling, yanking and – 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Sark husks in a startled breath, pushing hard into her fingers. His cock is damp, leaking at the tip, and she rubs the moisture back down his length, sending his hips twisting against hers. 

He knocks her legs open, sends her properly onto her back, and her skirt’s down around her waist as he clears material out of the way, fingers dipping – shit – inside her. And he’s laughing again, so possibly that might’ve been out loud, but her throat feels too tight to have ever spoken.

“You were watching,” he purrs in her ear, a second finger sliding into the first, and she can’t remember the last time she was this wet, dangerously frictionless, pulse beating above her clit so hard she thinks she might be on the verge of orgasm already. She _aches_. Actual physical _pull_ and she _wants_ \- 

“Maybe,” she manages to reply, and he laughs, which sends another curl, something different, spiraling through her stomach, down between her legs. His fingers slip out, coating along her entrance, and his middle finger finds her clit. He rubs it in circles, palm pressing hard on her pubic bone, and bites at her ear, her jaw. 

“Ought to make you suck me,” he murmurs right into her ear, and she has to clench her teeth not to make a sound. “Christ, Sydney. You’re so _ready_. Trouble at home?”

“Shut up,” she growls, shoving her hips up against his hand. He takes this as a sign for ‘faster,’ and her breath disappears completely. 

“How close,” he asks her, skin slippery and impossible under his fingers.

“Close,” she gasps, legs falling open as her hips pump up, his teeth biting _hard_ against her skin, strangling noise as she comes against his fingers, hips still rolling and churning against – god – more – 

“Good,” he murmurs, nosing at her jaw. “So good.” Her fingers, still caught and collapsed inside his pants, grasp helplessly at material and the cold metal bite of the zip. 

She watches him, dazed, as he sucks his fingers clean, Cheshire grin warmed and clever on his face. And doesn’t ask her if she’s ready, doesn’t ask her if she’s _sure_ , doesn’t ask her fucking _anything_ as he rolls, as her fingers stroke at him, as she guides him in.

Her head falls back with a thunk to the floor, feeling the tip of his cock slide past, the catch of his chest against hers as he holds himself up and tries not to bite clean through his lip. Little pushes of his hips as he fucks her just there, just the first two inches of him rubbing against the most sensitive part of her, still pulsing with aftershock from her first orgasm and it’s almost too much except how it’s not anything like _enough_

Her fingers close around his hip, pulling him in closer and each push inside makes her bite down on her lip again, just this close to tasting blood without breaking skin. Sark’s breathing _hard_ , and Sydney, with her one circled hand, can feel the base of him, the place where they meet, and his eyes – 

So fucking blue.

He doesn’t move until he has her gaze, the only form of question he’s allowed her all night, and it’s all he’ll give. And all she needs, because he’s moving and _fuck_ thicker than she’s used to, and not nearly hard enough.

“More,” she gasps, knee coming up to urge his ass down, hard and sharp and _fuck_ good.

“Greedy,” he scolds, but it’s neither laughing or convincing in any sense, not with the way his back is slick with sweat and his arms strain from holding himself up against the desire to collapse and rut. “Take your time, Sydney... there’s no rush.”

Another measured, deep, full thrust, and it’s not enough, she needs speed, she needs more, or she’ll start to think – 

Start to remember where she is.

Who she’s with.

And maybe that’s what he wants, the little shit, for her to be absolutely certain, and she doesn’t fucking have _time_ for this, neither of them do. She gives him a punishing bite, tearing his bottom lip open a little, enough to make him wince and growl and shove into her again, and it’s everything she has not to crow victoriously at the oh fuck so good yes more push.

Her hips help, boots flat on the floor and thighs burning to compensate, because they’re heels, and there’s no way she should be this flexible, except she is, one of his hands at the small of her back now, the leverage lifting her and faster – 

Faster, fuck, more.

Each of his breaths is a gasp, hitched and strangled on the inhale, and he licks his own lip, swipe of copperbronze swiping where she cut him, and she doesn’t want to taste it, doesn’t want to kiss him again, just wants him to fuck. her. harder. 

She can feel it like it’s going to bruise the insides of her thighs, she’s spread so wide, and the thrusts become a constant roll up for now, short and sweet and she misses the deep thrusts but this, this is better, grinding against the base of his cock is better, feeling the short-slap of his balls is _better_ , and she ratchets fingernails down his chest again on her way to milk her clit.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls against her throat, teeth lashing again to draw another mark, another bruise she’ll have to cover. 

“Fuck you,” she gasps, stroking herself in time with his thrusts, and he moans sharp and loud, driving her against the floor, thrusts erratic. “Come on, Sark.” Her own urging is dirty and wanton and shocking most of all, and she _wants_ it, wants to feel him – 

He floods, hot and jerky inside her, a sobbed-yell against her shoulder, and then it’s instant soft laughter as he tries to catch his breath, hips still moving as fast as they can manage and he knocks her hand out of the way, thumb infinitely lighter touch than she used on her self and it sends her sky fucking high, orgasm slapping her up into silence, mouth open in a silent moan.

Sark slows. Gradually. Gradually enough for her to feel sore and filthy and used and fucking perfect, even as he pulls out of her and her internal muscles try to keep him in place. Her legs sag, slipping down off his sticky skin and onto the floor, and he leans back on his knees and calves to pull up his pants, careful of the zipper as he cleans himself up.

Hungry eyes traverse the skin she’s left exposed as she catches her breath.

“We’ll have to do this again some time,” he says, and a jolt of anger and lust twine through her. She can feel the wetness between her legs, against her thighs, evidence of what they’ve done. What she wants more of.

“Fuck you,” she says again, and he smirks. 

Hauls her up by her hair, hand at the back of her throat, and kisses her. 

“Sicily,” he murmurs against her mouth, and her guttering brain doesn’t understand until he’s thrown open the window and the clang of the fire escape is like a lightbulb.

Sicily. 

Sure. 

Shaking hands pull her dress back over her chest, wincing slightly as the material rubs wrong against abused flesh. Her hands map the toothmarks she’s left in her neck, and there’s not a fucking thing for it.

Get back to the hotel. Clean up.

She’ll spend the next four weeks writhing in her sheets, touching herself, to this night. And when the call comes that October, a mission to Sicily, she kisses her husband goodbye without batting an eyelid and goes.


End file.
